


Promises to Keep

by Mireille



Category: Spider-Man (Movies - Raimi)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-06
Updated: 2002-06-06
Packaged: 2018-08-15 22:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8075587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: If there was an illustration for "not okay," it would look like Harry Osborn does right about now.





	

Unspoken rules in the loft, and one of them is that Norm Osborn is never mentioned. Harry doesn't want to talk about it--doesn't want to talk about anything--and Peter's not likely to bring the subject up. "Oh yeah, by the way, the guy who killed your dad? That was me."

And he knows, _knows_ , that there was nothing he could do, that Osborn had made the choice that brought them there the first time he put the Goblin's mask on, but he can't tell Harry that, even if Harry would believe him. Can't take the father that Harry loved and turn him into a monster. He promised. And even if he doesn't owe Osborn anything, he owes Harry that much. 

So he says nothing about it, and neither does Harry, and some time around Christmas, Peter realizes that they're not saying anything at all to each other, these days. Realizes that he's spending more and more time patrolling the city, his city, until he's only at the loft to sleep and eat and occasionally study. That Harry has started to come home later and later, until this morning he doesn't make it back until Peter's eating breakfast. When he stumbles past Peter on his way up the stairs, Peter notices the reek of expensive booze and cheap sex, and before he's realized it, has said, "Harry? Are you...okay?" Which, dumbest question ever, Parker, he thinks, because if there was an illustration for "not okay," it would look like Harry Osborn does right about now. 

Maybe he was lucky. He knows what he has to do to make Uncle Ben proud of him, to make himself worthy of being Ben Parker's boy in all but the strictest biological sense. Harry doesn't know, has never known, how to make his father proud, and now he's lost all chance to find out. So while Peter could bury--can still bury--his grief in the good he does as Spider-Man, Harry's got to find other ways to kill the pain. 

Harry stops on the stairs, turns around to look at him, and Peter notices that he's thinner than he was at Thanksgiving, his cheekbones sharper...everything sharper, like a knife that's been honed to a razor edge; there's less of it than before, but what there is... _Deadly,_ he thinks, and isn't sure if it's with his human brain, or the spider-sense. 

"Yeah, Peter, I'm just great," he says. And Peter doesn't know what to do, how to respond to that, so he lets it go.

He wishes he had someone to talk to about it, but things have been awkward with MJ since the funeral, and MJ's another thing they don't talk about. They betrayed each other with MJ, for MJ, and they're even now, but that doesn't mean they want to discuss her. And Peter, at least, doesn't want to think about why he walked away from her, and how it doesn't have a thing to do with being Spider-Man. 

And has too much to do with Harry Osborn. On the surface level, the easy level, because he doesn't want to lose Harry's friendship over MJ, but then there's that thought that's been in the back of his head ever since the first day he ran into MJ outside the Moondance. There was his first thought, the one that had him running back to confront Harry, to demand, "How could you take her away from me?" but that one, he could dismiss easily. He never did anything. Harry was right. And he never would have done anything, never would have said anything, and so why shouldn't Harry date her? 

Then there was that second thought, the one that had been tugging at the back of his brain ever since. The one that screamed, "How could you want her and _not me_?" And hey, look, there's an even dumber question than "Are you okay?", because there's a whole list of reasons, and he's not sure if it starts with "Because you're a giant dork," and ends with "Because I'm not gay, you freak," or if it's the other way around. There are a lot of reasons in between, as well. Including the one where Peter tries to explain to himself that he doesn't, that he's never, that...well, of course he hasn't thought about it; he's been too busy being obsessed with MJ. And, well, fighting crime. And trying to earn a living, and going to school, and all the other things that have left him with no time to think about Harry in that way. Or in any way, for that matter, which is why he's just now realizing that Harry is close to falling apart. 

And it's his fault. He should have found another way to stop the Goblin, should have found some answer that didn't involve taking Harry's father away from him. But he wasn't good enough, wasn't smart enough, and he'd found himself with no other choice. But he can't stop thinking that there should have been one. 

Harry's sleeping when he leaves for class, is still sleeping when he comes back late that afternoon, but before Peter's finished his calc assignment, he can hear movement from the room across the hall. Hears the shower running, hears the swearing of the severely hung-over, and then nothing. He finishes the problem set, then goes downstairs to find Harry sitting at the table, staring blankly at his chem textbook. When he hears Peter's approach, he looks up, pushing his glasses farther up his nose, and shrugs. "Doesn't matter how long I work at it," he says, "some things I'm just never going to figure out."

"I can help you," Peter offers; he'd skipped the intro courses and gone straight into organic chemistry, so Harry's homework should present little problem for him. 

Harry checks his watch and shakes his head. "Got plans tonight," he says. "Maybe another time. Thanks, though." 

Plans. Plans meant Harry was going out to drink his way into oblivion, and maybe this time it'd take. He hadn't been good enough to save his uncle, to save Harry's father. But by god, he was going to keep Harry from destroying himself. "When was the last time you went to class?"

The brow furrowed. "What's today?"

"Thursday."

"Um...Friday, I think. Don't bother with the lecture, Peter; I know how it goes." Peter can see unshed tears, bright and sharp, in Harry's eyes. He hasn't cried, hasn't gotten angry, hasn't cursed Spider-Man's name, hasn't _anything_ since the funeral, and Peter wonders how he could have failed to see before now that it's eating Harry alive. 

"I'm not going to lecture." He grins, aiming for "encouraging" and hoping he avoids "creepy" in the process. "I just figured maybe tonight we could get some dinner--" and he was not going to start sounding like Aunt May and nagging Harry to eat-- "and maybe I could help you with that chemistry. Or, you know, we could go to a movie. Do something. We don't ever see each other any more," he adds; "the only way I know you still live here is that you always manage to flood the bathroom when you take a shower." 

And Harry smiles back, though it doesn't come anywhere near reaching his eyes, and that question's coming back to Peter's mind again, but he's not asking it. Not even of himself. That would be pushing his luck, and he's afraid of that, because Harry's nodding and saying, "Yeah, okay, why not?"

The only things in the kitchen are Lucky Charms and Dr. Pepper, so they opt for Chinese delivery and a week's worth of Chem 101 assignments, and once or twice, he manages to get a genuine laugh out of Harry. Which isn't what he needs, isn't going to let out any of the poison that's been building up inside him, but is maybe a start. Is definitely a start, he realizes, because some of the edge is being worn off Harry; he's beginning to seem more like himself and less like the beautiful, suffering stranger who's been haunting their apartment lately. 

And once or twice, Peter feels his spider-sense tingle, and knows there's somewhere else he should be, but he doesn't go. He can't always--there's only one of him, and a city of millions, and he can't save everyone. Besides, he's not the same naive kid he was when Uncle Ben told him that responsibility came along with power. He understands that. He has to put the suit on, has to capture criminals, had to stop the Green Goblin. His duty, his responsibility, because no one else can do it. And that's what he's here for, he thinks, and thinks his uncle would agree: to do the things no one else can do.

But there are responsibilities that don't involve keeping the streets safe, power that doesn't require webs or wall-crawling, and those are just as important. Which is why he has to be here tonight, has to keep trying to coax laughter out of Harry so that maybe, later, the tears and the rage can come: because there's no one else who can. 

 

***

He doesn't know how he'd been expecting this to happen. A slow cracking of the wall around Harry, he thinks, maybe; something gradual and controlled. And he's been right, so far; in the past couple of weeks, it's gotten easier to get a smile out of Harry, and he's behaving more like his old self; partying less and studying more, willing to spend time with Peter, once in a while even willing to mention his father's name.

Peter thinks he might be slowly cracking, himself. He's been sleeping...not at all, really; has been going from class to the library to the Bugle to home (to Harry) to the rooftops of the city once Harry's asleep, and while he can make it for a while on an hour or two of sleep a night, he can't do it much longer. He slipped, last night, and nearly lost his grip on the web. Nearly wound up a red-and-blue grease spot on the pavement, and he can't do that. People need him.

Need Spider-Man, anyway. And people need--Harry needs--Peter Parker, as well, and that's another reason to be careful. If he dies as Spider-Man, then Harry's going to find out who he is, and Harry can't know that. One of an ever-growing list of things that Harry can't know.

Don't tell Harry that MJ's a waitress. Don't tell Harry his father's a psycho. Don't tell Harry you're a genetically-modified freak. Don't tell Harry...

Don't tell Harry you've been thinking about kissing him. Don't tell him you've been thinking about it a lot. Don't tell him that when you do sleep, what you dream of is him. Don't tell him anything. It'll only make things worse, and they're bad enough already.

And it feels disloyal to MJ, but in lit class this semester, they're talking about courtly love, and he thinks maybe that's it. Can see himself as a knight, dedicating his heroic deeds to the honor and glory of his lady, but never daring to touch her. Never even really wanting to touch her, because that would spoil the perfection. So maybe it's not disloyal to MJ to want Harry, after all. 

And maybe he's just making excuses so that he can avoid admitting that he's dreaming about Harry and not MJ because he's gay. Or bi. Or maybe just a freak, always a possibility when you can shoot spiderwebs out of your wrists. 

He's definitely cracking, and not all that slowly. He's not going to go out tonight; the city will have to survive on its own for one night. So will Harry; he's too tired. He's going to stumble right upstairs and fall onto his bed and not get up until morning, and--

And Harry's sitting at the table, today's Bugle clutched in his hands, and his face is... Is terrible, twisted with grief and hate, and Peter doesn't need to see the headline to know whose picture is on the front page. It's been months since he had to really think about how much Harry hates Spider-Man, hates _him,_ and he's not prepared for the way it feels. "What happened?" Peter asks, as though he can't guess.

"How?" Harry asks in return, his voice raw and thick with tears, and he holds up the paper for Peter to see. "How can they say he's a hero?"

Peter's seen that story already, and he's not sure he'd call their treatment of Spider-Man "heroic," but it's better than some of the stories Jameson's run about him, at least. "Is that the one about the carjacking?" There'd been a woman, barely older than Peter, and two little kids in the car, and the punk had a gun practically bigger than the baby he'd pointed it at. Stopping him felt right, felt like he was making up for not saving his uncle, and he'd been glad, for the first time in a long time, that he'd been bitten by that spider. 

Harry nods. "Like he's some kind of savior. Like he's one of the good guys."

Every word a knife in his gut, and he wants to grab Harry, to hold him still and make him listen while Peter explains everything, no matter how much it hurts. But he can't do it. He can't rip away what little Harry has left to cling to, not when he has so little to offer in return. Take away his memories of his father as a good man, a brilliant man, an admirable man, and replace them with...what? A roommate who's a mutant freakshow superhero, who watched Harry's father die and couldn't think of a way to save him? It's not a fair trade, not at all, not even if it would maybe make _him_ hurt less.

"He did save that woman and her kids," he points out, knowing that Harry isn't going to care. "He can't be all bad."

Harry's quiet for a few seconds, and Peter's not sure what he should say next. Then the paper flies across the room, coming apart mid-air to shower the place in newsprint, and Harry's fist hits the table. "Then why not him?" Harry demands. "He saves all these other people, but my father, he decides to kill?"

"Harry--" But there's nothing he can say, nothing that really means anything, because he can't tell Harry the truth. 

"What did he ever do to Spider-Man?" Harry says. "What did _I_ do?" 

He's shaking, hard enough that Peter can see it, and his eyes are dark and hurting and there isn't a tear in them. Peter can't find any words at all; what he wants to do is wrap his arms around Harry, whisper reassurances in his ear, promise him the same things he promised MJ: _I will always be there for you. I will always find you. I will always save you._ Instead, though, he comes around the table and puts a hand on Harry's shoulder in what he hopes is a sufficiently masculine gesture of comfort.

He can almost feel Harry's control break, does feel the shoulders slump, the muscles go slack; a second later, feels the sobs begin. Nothing beautiful in this suffering, and he feels guilty for finding the haunted eyes beautiful before. And now he can't help it, can't let Harry hurt like this without doing something. Not only because he feels responsible, not only because he's the only one who can be there for Harry. He just can't. 

So now, whatever the cost, he does put both arms around Harry, hugging him awkwardly, his neck aching from bending over him. Breathing in the smell of soap and shampoo that don't, really, smell that much different than the store-brand stuff he buys, no matter how fancy the bottles are. But it's Harry, and that's what matters. Doesn't quite dare to kiss him, but suspects that it wouldn't matter, that he's given enough away just by the way he's holding onto Harry, the soothing nonsense he's murmuring--the same sorts of nonsense Aunt May used to croon when he was little and had bad dreams: "Sssh" and "hush, now," and "don't you worry," which are all ridiculous, because there's plenty to cry about and even more to worry over. 

 

And then Harry's hands close over his, strong--not as strong as he is now, no, but stronger than he ever dreamed of being a year ago--and determined, and Harry's voice is quiet, but firm, when he says, "Peter--don't."

He jumps back like he's been stung, has to fight not to literally plaster himself against the ceiling in his attempt to get away from Harry. Apologies tumble out of him before he even has a chance to think: "I'm sorry, Harry, I didn't mean-- I wasn't--"

Harry stands up, turns to look at him, and Peter is relieved to see that at least he doesn't seem to be angry. About this, he means, because he's not going to try to pretend that Harry isn't angry. And he'd say "but not at him," except that he's not yet crazy enough to forget that no matter how schizo that makes their conversation sound, no matter how many lies and half-truths that means he has to tell, Spider-Man isn't a separate person: he's just Peter Parker in a mask.

No matter how much he wishes, sometimes when he looks at Harry, that he isn't. "I'm sorry," he repeats, and this time, it's not about anything that's happened today. 

Harry shakes his head and gives him something that for the lack of a better word, Peter's going to call a smile despite the sadness underlying it, and says, "You don't have to be sorry. But you don't understand-- I don't think you know what it looks like you're asking, Peter."

No, Harry definitely doesn't live on a place even a little bit like planet Earth. Or anywhere else where they've invented basic cable. He pretends that he isn't even slightly insulted that Harry thinks he's that naive--it isn't that important--and says, "I'm not asking for anything. Not if you don’t want me to."

"If I don't want--God, Peter. I--" The words trail off into silence, and Harry's just looking at him. Peter can't read his expression, thinks he might just be seeing what he wants to see, but then again, Harry's still looking right at him, and he hasn't said a word. Then, finally, he says, "Don't do this. Not because you feel sorry for me."

Peter can only shake his head dumbly for a minute, then, when he finds his voice, says, "That's not why." Not because he feels sorry for Harry, not because he feels responsible, not because he thinks he may be the only one who can make things right again--all of those are true, but none of them are why he wants this. This is purely because he wants to, because he wants Harry to be happy...because he wants Harry; and if it happens that this is also one of the things he has to do because no one else can or will, then he's just having a lucky day for once 

"Why, then?" A challenge, and he can hear how much Harry wants to push him away, to protect himself by holding Peter at arm's length. 

"Why not?" he says, and it sounds more flippant than he means it to, so he adds, "I'm serious. Give me one good reason, and I'll drop the subject forever. We can pretend we never had this conversation. Or you can hate me. Whatever you want." Only two reasons good enough for him to accept, and he hopes it's not the one where Harry looks at him and says, "How could you ever think I'd want you?"

"You don't want this." The sentence almost, but not quite a question.

Peter nods. "Yes, I do." Isn't entirely sure that he's not going to completely freak out somewhere in the middle; is sure he wishes he had more experience, of any kind, with anyone but oh, he wants this. Whatever Harry will let him give--whether it stops now and turns into the friendly comfort he'd meant to offer in the first place, or whether they end up doing some of the things Peter's been dreaming about, it doesn't matter, as long as it's something. As long as he's not just standing by and letting...whatever this is...happen to Harry, any longer.

The challenge is still in Harry's voice. "Since when?"

And Peter thinks back to senior year, to trying to explain the finer points of a zoology lecture to Harry, one of the first times they ever talked. Suddenly recalls noticing how different Harry looks when he smiles, and realizes that his habit of producing obscure science facts (that, really, he can't imagine Harry not wanting to know, no matter what he claims) was born from the desire to make Harry groan, and roll his eyes, and grin at him. From the way the world stops, just for a split second, when he does. "Since...since forever, maybe. I think." And it's not a smooth answer, but who'd believe one of those from Peter Parker, anyway?

"MJ."

Not even close to a question; a bald statement that stops just short of calling him a liar. "Is a friend. Just a friend, and she knows that." And he could ask Harry the same thing, but he's not going to, has decided to take him at his word, whatever it is. "I'm telling you the truth, Harry. I want you--" stumbling slightly over the words he's never said out loud to anyone before--"and I care what happens to you--" editing himself to keep from scaring Harry away--"and I want to do this." For once the truth, and never mind that it's something Harry isn't supposed to find out; Peter has to tell him. Wants to tell him everything, share everything with him: the beauty of the city from the rooftops, the horror of having blood on your hands, everything that's part of his life now; but he has to settle for a nervous smile and, "But it's okay if you don't want--"

The words are stopped by a mouth pressed against his, arms sliding around his waist, and he'd think he's dreaming if he didn't still feel tired enough to pass out. He leans into Harry, puts his arms around him, and, when he feels Harry's tongue tracing his lower lip, shivers and parts his lips slightly. Shivers again when the tongue slicks against his; it feels like Harry's laying claim to him, and Peter's only too happy to give him whatever he wants. Only too happy to kiss back, and he feels less self-conscious, less strange, than he imagined he would--and why shouldn't he? This is Harry, after all, who'd seen someone worth liking in the geek with the coke-bottle glasses; he's hardly likely to reject Peter just for not being the most expert kisser in New York. Besides, maybe inept dork-types who are still trying to figure out how to maneuver around a second tongue in their mouths are the in thing this season. 

Harry sighs against his mouth, and Peter brings his hands up to tangle in his hair, holding him there, trying to hold onto this for as long as he can. Which isn't long, because Harry shrugs his hands away, pulls back and looks at him, and there's something cold in his eyes. 

"You'd better not be lying to me," he says, and Peter flinches. All he ever seems to be able to do is lie to Harry, and now he's lying about even that. 

"I'm not," he gets out without his voice shaking. _Not about this, anyway._

And Harry must believe him, because he's kissing Peter again, mouth hot and demanding, and oh, Peter hopes this is a good idea, hopes this isn't just making things more complicated, hopes this is the right thing, the thing that will keep Harry anchored and let him start dealing with everything that's happened, because he'd like to keep doing this at every possible opportunity. Would like to stay here forever, or at least for the next week or so, and how could he not have realized this is what he wants? 

Doubts creep in, because this is far too easy, to stand here and kiss Harry--to be kissed by Harry, more accurately, because Peter hasn't been in control of the situation since...well, since forever, he thinks, but it doesn't matter. Except that it seems far more fair than his experience of the universe would justify, that the right thing to do would be this easy. 

Harry's hands are at his waist, tugging his shirt loose, and then Peter tries not to moan as Harry reaches under the shirt to skim his palms along Peter's sides, over his chest. Light, teasing touches, and more kisses, and Peter promises all the doubts and worries that he'll give them the attention they deserve, just--later. After they're done with this. 

And maybe it's okay that he doesn’t quite know what he's doing, because Harry's confident enough for both of them. There's casual arrogance in the way he's touching Peter, as though he's never even considered the possibility that he would be denied anything that he wants. Which is fine, because Peter can't really consider the possibility of denying Harry any of this, either. 

Now Harry's unbuttoning Peter's shirt, and for a minute, it seems like a very good idea. Just for a minute, until Peter remembers what Harry's going to see once the shirt is off, and there's no good explanation for the knots of flesh just above his wrists except for the truth. And he wants to tell Harry the truth, wants to push back his sleeves and say, "Remember when we took that field trip to Columbia?" But no matter what he's told Harry so far that he thought he never could, that's the one thing Harry can't know. 

If they were in bed, he thinks, he might be able to hide them. Slip his arm behind his head, accidentally drape a blanket so that it conceals the web-shooters, something. Harry's pulling on his shirt, and if he doesn't do something now, it's going to be too late, so Peter wraps his arms around Harry and whispers, "Shouldn't we maybe go upstairs for this?"

Harry grins, and there's a note of relief in it, Peter thinks; maybe Harry was expecting him to back out at the last minute. "Upstairs. Definitely," he murmurs, but he keeps kissing Peter, and while he's slowly moving them across the room, it's only to the couch. He tugs Peter's shirt the rest of the way off, and Peter gives in and lets it happen, afraid that the only way to stop it is to end this altogether, which he's not prepared to do. He makes sure his arms are turned so that Harry can't see and hopes for the best. 

Harry's watching him again, and there's nothing, absolutely nothing, that compares to the heat in his eyes as he looks at Peter, the slow grin he gives him as he says, "Do you still want--"

Peter doesn't even let him finish the question. "Yes." Unbuckles his belt, gets his shoes and socks off, shucks his jeans and boxers as quickly as possible, before Harry can decide that he's just bluffing, before he misreads Peter's uncertainty as unwillingness. And maybe this is moving a bit faster than Peter had planned, but it isn't like he hasn't been thinking about it for a while, isn't like he has to psych himself up for it. 

Harry's still grinning as he undresses, more slowly than Peter, and of course he's seen Harry shirtless before; they've been sharing an apartment for the better part of a year, and there've been plenty of mornings when Harry's stumbled groggily out of the bathroom wearing only a towel, but that doesn't count; it isn't as though Peter has been looking. Isn't as though he's been letting himself register anything but "Harry overslept again." 

It's registering now: lean, elegant muscle, broad shoulders, torso tapering down to narrow hips, and Peter has to remind himself that it's all right to look, that it's more than all right, it's practically a requirement. Harry certainly isn't shy about it, is looking him over with outright appreciation, which surprises Peter for a minute, before he remembers that he's not the scrawny geek he still expects to see in the mirror. Wonders whether they'd be here if he was, but he's smart enough not to think about that for too long, because they're here now, and Harry's hands are on his shoulders, gently pushing him down onto the couch, and it really doesn't matter if Harry wouldn't have wanted him a year ago. Much.

He tries to remind himself that the important thing is that Harry's focusing on something other than grief or revenge, that whether or not Harry really wants him at all, or whether anyone would have done, is irrelevant. It doesn't work, but it stops troubling him anyway, because Harry's on top of him, kissing him, and Peter can wrap his arms around Harry's neck and stop worrying about whether or not Harry's going to notice anything odd about them. And exactly how much of a goon does it make him to be this pleased with himself because he's getting Harry hard--Harry, with his soulful eyes and his almost too-pretty mouth and just everything that he is and Peter won't ever be, even after the spider bite--because he can make him arch against Peter's hip and moan and kiss Peter until they're both a little dizzy from lack of oxygen, and who would have thought that Peter Parker could turn anyone on that much, ever? 

Harry's breath is warm against his ear, and there's a second surge of heat through Peter's whole body when he whispers, "I've been having this dream where I'm sucking you." Peter tries to lie perfectly still, tries to slow his breathing and lower his heart rate and not, *not* come right there and then like a complete loser who's never had sex before, no matter how true that is. But Harry appears to have misinterpreted his response, because he says, "I shouldn't have said that, should I?"

"No...I mean, yes...I have no idea what I mean," he admits, "but it's fine. Really fine." Doesn't add, "it'd be even more fine if you did it," but wonders if it's written across his face. He may be good at keeping secrets these days, but he doubts he's that good. And he's suddenly cold, because Harry has moved off the couch, is on the floor next to him, urging him to sit up. 

Which he does, folding his arms behind his head for caution's sake, and Harry pushes his thighs apart, and then, oh, yeah, he was definitely kidding himself when he tried to convince himself he wasn't attracted to Harry, because. Wow. "Wow," he says again, this time out loud, and flushes at the utter lameness of it. All right, maybe it is lame, but it's definitely sincere, and "sincere" earns points, doesn't it?

Well, maybe it does, at that, because Harry doesn't seem to be stopping, and Peter quits worrying about how stupid he sounds, because...wow, again. Harry's either done this before, or he's got a natural gift for it. And Peter assumes Harry's probably done it before, because he's got to be the only nineteen-year-old virgin on the planet, doesn't he? Except some of the Amish, maybe, and now his brain has just completely gone into random mode, so never mind thinking. And who needs it, anyway, at least for this particular moment while Harry's mouth is wet and hot and Peter really doesn't need any of his higher brain functions to appreciate what it's doing to him.

Which is a good thing, because they're all gone. He can practically feel his synapses shorting out with every movement of Harry's tongue against his erection, the heat and suction and-- his hips are moving involuntarily, and he keeps expecting Harry to pull away, seems to remember hearing the girls on the bus claiming that swallowing was the most disgusting thing possible, but Harry doesn't seem disgusted, doesn't seem to be at all concerned that Peter's coming in his mouth. And oh, thank goodness for that, because right now, there's nothing more important than Harry's mouth on him; the back of his mind still remembers that there are other things--secrets and lies and responsibilities--that should take precedence, but the back of his mind has been temporarily overruled. 

And then Harry is on the couch next to him, arms around him, murmuring, "What, no 'wow'?"

Peter laughs, a bit shakily. "That would require my being...you know. Verbal." 

"Later, then. I don't plan on letting you be verbal for a while." Kisses Peter then, and Peter can taste himself on Harry's lips. Feels a fresh surge of arousal at the memory that calls forth. 

They're quiet for a minute, before Harry looks at him, face utterly serious. "You trust me, right, Peter?"

 

And a real answer to that depends heavily on your definition of "trust." Of course he trusts Harry, Harry's his _best friend_ \--his only friend, really, because MJ isn't quite the same thing--but there are so many things he can't tell Harry, secrets Harry can't be trusted with, things it would be hurtful or dangerous or just plain stupid for Harry to know, and Peter doesn't know how to answer the question at all. So he nods, because yes, in most ways, he trusts Harry completely, and he's hoping whatever Harry wants to say next will be covered by that. 

Harry smiles at him again, softer and shyer than Peter's seen in a while, and says, "Because I want to fuck you--" and oh, god, Peter hasn't even imagined anyone saying that to him, ever, has only imagined him asking and not being rejected, never anyone wanting him so much as to say it first, and the words leave him almost dizzy, mouth dry, palms sweaty. "--and I can't promise it won't hurt if you've never done it before--you haven't, have you?"

Peter shakes his head, wondering if now would be the time to confess that the sum total of his experience prior to today has been kissing one person. Allows Harry to pull him over, rests his head on Harry's shoulder. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to," Harry says. 

He thinks about saying no, thinks about giving into the nervousness and suggesting something that doesn't seem quite so...serious, but he can't make himself. And it's only partly about wanting to give Harry what he wants, and mostly about what he wants himself, so he makes himself swallow around the knot in his throat and say, "I...yeah. I want to. I just..." Trails off, then, because he doesn't know how to explain himself without sounding dumb and hopelessly naive. 

"It'll be okay," Harry says, and Peter nods. Of course it will be okay. It's not...it's just sex, he reminds himself, people do it all the time and nothing monumental happens. It's probably happening all over the city, although he'll be surprised if anyone else is worried about whether or not he's going to wind up re-enacting one of those Discovery Channel shows about black widows-- _Those are female spiders,_ he reminds himself, _and there's not that much spider in my DNA, anyway, I'm sure. Pretty sure, anyway._

Harry's gotten up already, is rummaging through the front closet for something--his leather jacket, the one he only wears when he's going out somewhere, those nights when he comes home near dawn, or not at all--and checking the pockets. Looks a trifle shamefaced as he returns to the couch, and Peter takes a second to figure out why--Oh. 

He's not blushing, he's a grown man and he does not blush, isn't embarrassed about the idea that Harry's been going out with condoms and lube in his jacket, is only slightly embarrassed that he's been assuming that Harry's been picking up women exclusively. Or at all. There was MJ, of course, but they've never talked about that, and they still haven't talked about what...this...means. Which is good, because he has no idea how he's supposed to answer. 

Peter forces himself not to tense up when Harry coaxes him into a better position, when a slippery finger pushes into him, tries to concentrate instead on the fact that Harry's kissing him again, his tongue echoing what his fingers are doing inside Peter, and really, it's not so bad, thanks to his new, higher pain tolerance. It feels...strange, but it doesn't hurt, and when Harry moves his fingers a little, it feels..."good" just doesn't begin to cover it. "Wow," he says, and grins, and Harry laughs, which is what he wanted. And that feels even better, for Harry to be laughing, with that Peter-you-dork-make-me-laugh-again look in his eyes as he does this, as he puts on a condom and squeezes some of the gel into Peter's hand.

And he almost tells Harry they'll be all right with this, no need to go any farther, when he hears Harry gasp at his touch, when he wonders if he could make Harry moan and whimper and want him--but Harry already wants him, is already, while Peter wastes time thinking, very carefully easing his way inside him, and thank whatever quirk of arachnid genetics is making this hardly even uncomfortable. And then Harry starts to move, and Peter can't help but cry out. 

Harry freezes instantly, strokes Peter's cheek with one shaking hand. "I'm hurting you."

"No," he says quickly, then adding, "No, absolutely no, do that again, that's--"

Harry relaxes, the corner of his mouth curving upward. "Told you it'd be okay."

"Understatement," he gets out, just barely, because Harry's moving in him again, and there's heat spreading through his whole body, something white and sharp behind his eyelids, and he would tell Harry everything, would do anything, just to keep feeling this on a regular basis. He'd say, "forever," except that it's almost over already, with Harry collapsing, sticky and sweaty and gorgeous, on Peter's chest, and Peter finding the elegant curve of a hipbone to thrust against, until that white heat behind his eyes explodes, and he's only able to clutch at Harry and give in to the sensation. 

They lie still for a while--Peter, at least, too content to move--and Peter notices, eventually, that the sun has gone down most of the way, and the room is now in shadow. He'd meant to sleep...hours ago, he thinks. Still wants to sleep, needs to, but doesn't want to leave. He's halfway waiting for an indication that they can stay here, not sure if he wants to sleep next to Harry because he feels like he'll still be protecting Harry if he does, or if it's because he feels safer here, despite all the risks: maybe Harry hates Spider-Man, and maybe Peter might as well let him--what harm can it do?--but at least he cares about Peter Parker. 

Harry pulls him closer, mumbles something Peter can't quite understand. "What?"

This time it's clearer, although he's tempted to get Harry to repeat it again anyway, just to stall for time. "Do you love me?"

He flushes, knows what's coming if he's honest. Knows Harry's going to tell him this was just for fun, that of course he loves Peter, but as his best friend, the closest thing he has to family, and not at all like Peter's hoping. Wishing, really; he knows better than to hope for something like that. But he can't not be honest, not when there are so many other lies hanging between them, so he swallows hard and says, "Yeah, I think maybe--" Breaks off, because that's not honest enough. "Yes."

Waits for Harry to laugh, or pull away, or something other than what he does, which is hold onto him even tighter and say, "Yeah. Me too." 

Peter's not going to ask him to say that again, either, because he's desperately afraid Harry will have changed his mind in the past five seconds. But Harry doesn't show any signs of changing his mind, has buried his face in Peter's neck, is whispering, "Oh, God, Peter, I need you, I can't do this--"

Peter strokes his hair and takes a deep breath and says, "Anything, Harry. Anything." And it's true, it's the truest thing he's said in a long time, true enough that it might make up for all the lies. And no, maybe this isn't going to be easy, and maybe the whole thing will come crashing down on him next year, or next month, or next week, but right now, he's utterly convinced that this is the right thing to do. What he needs, to keep him human--to not let the normal nineteen-year-old guy (okay, the normal nineteen-year-old apparently gay guy, but still, normal enough, if not quite something he's used to yet) part of him be submerged in the part of him that has a mission and responsibilities and spider DNA. What Harry needs, to keep him on a more even keel, to let him start dealing with everything that's happened. What they both need, because they love each other, and maybe they're the only ones who can. 

Harry's talking again, and Peter only catches the last word: "--Spider-Man."

"Huh?" Shock and confusion and blind panic all clamoring for their place at the head of the line. and he wonders how Harry found out, how he could possibly have found out, why he's still alive if Harry knows...

"I want you to help me find Spider-Man," Harry repeats calmly. "Since you seem to know him--"

"Where did you get that idea?" He wouldn't have talked to MJ, neither of them have talked to MJ much, and he thinks, maybe, MJ knows his secret, would warn him if Harry was coming too close. There's no way, Peter's been careful, so careful, Harry can't possibly suspect him--

"The Bugle called this afternoon," he says. "They wanted more pictures. Told you to try to get him to agree to an interview."

"I don't know him all that well," Peter lies; "I've just been in the right place at the right time."

Harry shrugs. "That's all I'm asking you to do now. Be in the right place at the right time. Let me know where he goes, what he does, who he is if you can find that out. He killed my father, Peter. He has to pay for what he's done."

"An eye for an eye?" Cold fear in his stomach; if Harry knows this much, how easy will it be for him to find out the rest? 

"Something like that." He smiles again, and it's sharp again, and Peter can feel himself being split open on the edges of that smile, dissected and displayed and destroyed because he promised that Harry would never find out the truth about the Green Goblin. Intends to keep his promise, even if that's what it means. "I'm not asking you to kill him, Peter, or even lay a hand on him. Just help me find him."

Peter must have been silent for too long, because then Harry's voice softens, and it's gentle, almost coaxing, as he says, "Just help me, Peter." The smile's even sharper, cutting through Peter before he even realizes it, and Harry adds, "If you loved me, you would."

And Peter closes his eyes, sorting through the lies to try to figure out which ones to tell now, which ones to pretend he believes.


End file.
